Waking Up
by SarcasticallyDriven19
Summary: John's been struggling with nightmares ever since Sherlock's 'suicide', even after the detective returns. One night, Sherlock finds out about them. Set after the reunion, which is something I'll be writing eventually.


**Author's Note- Alright people, this is my first 'published' Sherlock fan-fiction, and I did my best on it. But don't be nice just because you're afraid to hurt my feelings. If you don't like it, then tell me. If you like it, then tell me (please). If the format is off, that's because I'm still getting used to working with . Hope you like it! This one ISN'T Johnlock, but it's sort of fluffy... sort of. Please comment, comments make me a happy camper. :D Enjoy!**_  
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_The wind whistled past his dark coat as he uttered the fatal words. "This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note." John swallowed hard and shifted. He knew what Sherlock was saying. It was their first case together. But he couldn't accept what Sherlock meant. He couldn't. _

_"Leave a note when?" His voice cracked and shuddered around the lump in his throat. Silence for a moment, then-_

_"Goodbye, John." _

_"No, don't-" But Sherlock had dropped his arm, and the sound of a phone colliding with the rooftop could be heard from John's end. "Sher- SHERLOCK!" John hollered as loudly as he could, praying, praying Sherlock heard him, praying Sherlock would stop this. Instead, his best friend spread his arms out wide, as if he was going to fly- please grow wings and fly- and leaned forward. "Sherlock." John choked as Sherlock plummeted towards the ground, arms spinning and legs flailing. He disappeared behind the building separating them, but John knew Sherlock hit the ground. Faintly, he heard a sickening smack, followed by silence. John knew there were shocked cries, he knew the noise of the city still went on, but he heard nothing. He would never hear, really hear, anything again. Sherlock was gone, gone, gone forever and there was blood on the pavement and unseeing clear blue eyes forever blank-_

"NO." A cry ripped from his throat as consciousness claimed him as John sat up wildly in his bed, and a cold sweat made his shirt cling to his skin. The bed sheets clumped in his tight fists as he struggled with the losing battle with his subconscious. No matter how long John lived, no matter how many times he would walk downstairs and see that brilliant man lying on the couch moaning about boredom or nearly blowing up the kitchen, he would always see the same image at night. Sobs racked his chest, making John shudder all over as he flopped back down on the mattress and attempted to calm himself down. The breathing exercises he used didn't help as well as they usually did. Just as John had made up his mind to get up already and assure himself of Sherlock's liveliness, a gentle knock fell upon the door. John swallowed hard and sat up, mentally begging his left hand to stop trembling. "Come in." He croaked.

The door opened halfway, and a familiar dark-haired man poked his head in. John blinked against the sting of the hallway light as it invaded his eyes, the warm glow of it outlining the man in the doorway. "All right?" Sherlock asked, and John could swear there was a hint of concern in his voice.

"Yeah... Yeah, I'm fine." He breathed, wiping a hand across his face. Tears had mixed with sweat, the chill of it making John shiver involuntarily.

"Nightmare?" Sherlock went on, opening the door more and stepping into the room, clad in his blue housecoat and jammy's. John wondered why he developed a sudden interest in the army doctor's dreams. Then, John realized it was probably the first time he had shouted out during a nightmare since Sherlock returned. Either way, John doubted he could slip it past Sherlock's piercing gaze and lightning fast deductions.

"Yeah." John took a deep breath and half-wished Sherlock would go away and not see John in such a state, but the other half of him wanted Sherlock to stay and verify the fact that he was alive, and not dead on the sidewalk, blood dripping down the side of his face and skin deathly white, those eyes that once shone with such brilliance instead blank and and the light forever blown out- _Stop that,_ he chided himself as bile rose up in his throat. Grimacing, he swallowed it down.

"Not the war?" The man was too good at this sometimes.

"Not the war." John confirmed. Sherlock remained silent for a brief moment. John knew that he knew.

"How long?" There was an underlying question hidden there, but John could just make it out. _Have you been dreaming about it all this time? _Why yes, yes he had. Give the genius a gold star.

It had been one month since Sherlock's Back-From-The-Dead-Holy-Jesus-You-Fucking-Git return, but John had been having the same nightmare ever since Sherlock fell from that fated rooftop a little over a year ago- the war memories would sometimes make a guest appearance. Some nights it was easier, sleeping pills occasionally helped, but it was always the same dream. No matter how predictable it got, John always woke up in sheer terror followed by debilitating anguish. Sherlock's return did help pull back the number of nights ruined by the nightmare, but sometimes he got unlucky. After a few months however, the sleeping pills had ceased to work.

John pulled himself out of his thoughts as Sherlock crossed the room and stood by his bed for a moment. Indecision momentarily crossing his features in the dim light of the room before he made up his mind and sat on the edge of John's bed. The doctor blinked at his flatmate, wondering how bad he looked from this one. Clearing his throat, Sherlock met the other man's curious gaze. "John, when I faked my death-" John succeeded in not flinching this time- "I didn't realize the repercussions on you would affect you so mercilessly. I owe you a thousand apologies."

"I told you, I already forgave you. This isn't your fault." _It's my stupid subconscious, it loves to torture me endlessly. _Sherlock opened his mouth to protest this but John shook his head. "I've had bad dreams since the war, alright? Nothing really helps, so there isn't much you can do." Silence reigned between them for a few minutes as Sherlock's eyes scanned John's face, his posture, and most likely every inch of John he could deduce. Patiently, John waited.

"Your sleeping pills haven't been working as of late." Sherlock murmured, so low it sounded as if it was to himself. With a nod John confirmed this deduction. "You also haven't seen your therapist since I returned, yes?" John nodded again.

"I'm not returning to the shrink." John argued this before Sherlock could speak again. A ghost of a smile pasted over the detective's lips.

"I wasn't going to suggest that." Sherlock replied. "She didn't do her job half as well as I have." There was the ego again. A surge of unexpected anger, one he had been suppressing for over a year now, rose up in John's chest. John knew Sherlock had saved his life in more ways than one, but this wasn't the moment to be reminded of his debt.

"No, you just _increased_ my need to get a decent therapist." John snapped, then regretted his words the moment they passed his lips. A hurt, guilty expression crossed Sherlock's face, followed by a swift icy indifference. "Sherlock-"

"No, I understand." Sherlock stood up. "I have caused a lot of turmoil in your life since we met. It's perfectly understandably for you to be upset. You had the choice to remain with me or not, and you do have the option to leave whenever you wish, John." The reaction to his own statement cut into John like a knife was being dragged across his skin. It only fueled his rage.

"You think it's that simple?" growled John, throwing his legs over the side of the bed to get up. He might be shorter than his flatmate, but he wouldn't have it out with him while he was lying in bed. "You think I can just up and go without a second thought? Well let me tell you something, Sherlock Holmes-" Standing up, John glared narrowly as Sherlock, legs less steady than he would have preferred. Sherlock glared back at him with infuriatingly indifferent features. "My life was nothing before you, and went to fucking hell when you up and left. I blamed myself every damn day while you were gone, regretting every cross word I ever said to you. I didn't have any choice in this! As much as I _hate_ to admit it," John poked Sherlock in the chest as his voice rose in tone, "I need you, you stupid, arrogant, git, and no matter what crazy, insane thing you do, I don't have the option to just leave!"

Silence once again reigned between the two men. John was deeply satisfied to see the shocked look in Sherlock's eyes as the ice melted off of him. John's chest was heaving from his rant, the anger he had felt finally being allowed to come forth.

Sherlock gulped once. "John-" But John swiftly cut him off; he wasn't done.

"Almost every damn night over the last year I've watched you fall down the side of that bloody building, and every time I wake up like this. At least, _at least _I have the comfort in knowing now that you're downstairs blowing holes in the wall or playing that violin at mad hours. And it is! It's a comfort! Because for a few moments before I realize your alive... You're dead again, and it hurts, and I hate you and I hate myself and the whole bloody world could explode and I wouldn't give a damn because I think you're gone and it _fucking kills me._" Sobs had begun to pull at John's lungs again, but John ignored them just as much as he ignored Sherlock's fearful look. "It kills me because yes, you did a hell of a lot better than Ella did, and after the war I wasn't even close to half the man I used to be. Which wasn't much- Life was _boring;_ God help me for using that word around you, but it was boring. It had its moments, but I needed more, and damn it all you gave it. You gave everything I needed and more, though why the hell you decided to help me, some stupid, mundane, ordinary-"

"John, enough!" Sherlock managed to say this over John's increasingly voluminous rant. John let out a sob just as his unsteady legs gave way. Before he could slump to the ground, Sherlock's wiry arms wrapped around him and together they sat down on the bed, Sherlock still holding John as the doctor finally let it all go.

Had he yelled when Sherlock returned? Yes, a bit. However, he never told him this, not everything. At that time John was too happy to have his friend back after the year of hell that he feared telling Sherlock just what a nightmare his life had become. Tears soaked the front of Sherlock's gray shirt, the blue housecoat crumpled and wrinkled as John gripped it like it was a lifeboat in the middle of a hurricane-ridden ocean.

The early morning dawn had just begun to break over central London before John sniffled one last time and took a shuddering breath. Dimly mortified at losing control like this, especially in front of Sherlock, John's thoughts raced. What sort of coward would his friend see him as now? What sort of embarrassment would Sherlock call him out on? Would he point out that sentiment was not an advantage, that caring as much as John did only led to pain?

Sherlock's deep baritone broke through John's worried thoughts. "John, you are very mistaken at your own worth and identity. You are not ordinary or mundane, but you do have duller moments- Many people do, don't be ashamed. I daresay that I didn't choose you, but it was a blessing you chose to remain my flatmate, much more my friend, after all I have put you through." Sherlock paused for a moment as John let these words sink in. "I... I didn't wish to leave you. Before you arrived into my life, I had very little to live for. I had cases, but those didn't suffice enough to allow me to want to continue my existence. There were acquaintances, but never friends. I kept everyone at a distance because I only ever saw what having loved ones did to people; it destroyed them, ate them whole and left them lying on the ground, bleeding. Until you arrived, I had no idea what good it did, what it was like to feel, to care for someone. I barely cared for myself. However, my blasted brother wouldn't allow me to slip away easily. I suppose I should be grateful for him, otherwise I never would have been set in a position to meet you. What I must admit is that life was never the same for me again when I met you. And for that, I am infinitely grateful. I am grateful for you, John Hamish Watson. I need you just as much, if not more, as you need me."

John was skeptical. "You could be just saying that." John murmured, but didn't release his grip on the other man, even as Sherlock pulled him back to look him in the eye. Determination radiated out of the clear eyes, full lips set firmly.

"I am not. I mean every word I say when it comes to such matters with yourself, John. You've heard me speak ill of the softer emotions in human nature, but I don't apply such gibes to you. You are far different from everyone else." Sherlock argued, fingers digging into John's back as if he could press these facts into John's being and make him believe them. "I never wanted to hurt you, it wasn't even on my list of things to consider doing on a later day. To hurt you, John, is to hurt myself, and I'm far beyond that point in my life now."

John searched Sherlock's face for the faintest hint of fabrication, but found none. This was blatant honesty. Anxiety John didn't know he was holding washed away as relief and affection swelled in his chest, making him feel better than he had in ages. In a sudden movement, John pulled Sherlock close and hugged him tightly, burying his face in the crook of the taller man's long neck. Sherlock copied John's embrace, his hand cupping the back of the soldier's head. "I'm sorry, John. I am so sorry." His voice was muffled by John's shoulder.

"Shut up." John replied, but there was no edge or malice in his tone, only fondness. Sherlock chuckled silently. A minute later, the two of them pulled apart, Sherlock giving John a moment alone before the doctor followed his flatmate downstairs to proceed on with the morning, feeling as if a iron anvil had been lifted from his chest.

That night, the nightmares dared not burden him with their cursed memories of a genius's fake suicide. For the first time in what was one year and two months, John had a decent night sleep. He'd be damned if it wasn't because he finally allowed himself to really tell Sherlock, not his name on a black marble gravestone, what he wanted to tell him.

John needed Sherlock. Just like Sherlock needed John.


End file.
